12. Chapter Twelve - Silent Yearning
“Culver,” I whispered as I sat beside him, forcing air back into my lungs like I’d forgotten how to breathe for a second.
My voice came out soft, threaded with guilt.
I didn’t look at him right away. Being close to him always made me feel exposed, as though he could see straight through whatever armor I tried to wear.
And now, after he’d seen all of me—literally all of me—that feeling had only gotten worse.
“I’m really sorry for… grabbing your dick like that.
I swear I would never do that on purpose without consent. ”
What a completely normal sentence to say out loud.
He stayed still only for a moment before his hand slid around the back of my head, fingers twitching lightly against me as he drew me closer.
His body leaned in too, his thigh brushing mine.
Tingles raced up my back while my heartbeat drummed unevenly in my chest. Our foreheads touched, and somehow I managed not to combust on the spot.
“Why do you insist on apologizing?” he murmured. “Your touch is far from unwanted.”
His cool breath mingled with mine. If either of us closed the slightest distance, we’d be kissing.
My eyes dipped to his lips before flicking back up. Absolutely not. My brain was a liar. A terrible, terrible liar.
“Well…” I held his gaze, trying to read whatever hid beneath that impossible calm. “You left so fast that I… thought I did something really bad.”
He smirked, his nose brushing mine. “You know exactly why I had to go, Ira.”
The way he said it was maddeningly vague on purpose. Classic Culver.
Unfortunately, my imagination filled in the blanks anyway.
I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from smiling, but the image still surfaced: Culver alone behind that door, jaw tight, hand working rough and fast around his cock just to burn off enough tension to come back and look at me without losing control.
It was dramatic, ridiculous, and embarrassingly effective.
I squeezed my eyes shut and forced the thought away before it dragged me under completely, though my body clearly hadn’t gotten the memo.
I shifted slightly on the cushion, trying to ease the ache building between my thighs.
“Like, I might have an idea,” I muttered, still half trapped in the mental image, “but I can’t be too sure.
I guess I’ll keep that question to myself… ”
“It would be thrilling if you asked what’s on your mind,” he chuckled, finally pulling back, his eyes gleaming with mischief.
“You’d end up telling me that you were jerking off to the thought of my hand on your dick,” I said, folding my arms across my chest and puffing my cheeks in a weak attempt to hide my spiraling thoughts. “Pervert.”
Unfortunately, it was becoming a very attractive personality trait.
“Seems as if we were both thinking about it,” he hummed without a trace of embarrassment, though desire brightened his eyes.
I couldn’t think of a comeback fast enough. How was he always able to make me feel like some innocent schoolgirl? No. No way. I was a grown woman… technically.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I reached out and slid my hand between his legs. My fingers brushed against the cushion beneath him. His eyes lifted slightly in surprise, and I watched his Adam’s apple shift as he swallowed.
“If you’re trying to tease me,” I whispered, fighting to keep my voice steady, “it won’t work.”
It was absolutely working.
I nudged my hand forward just an inch until it barely brushed against his pants. The tiny contact was enough to make his breath hitch while still letting me cling to the last scraps of my sanity.
“Ira,” he warned, his voice rough.
Then his hand closed gently around my wrist. He tugged it slightly toward where his cock rested beneath his jeans, not far enough to fully guide me there but enough to make the implication painfully clear.
“Are we making it to dinner?” Probably not emotionally.
I wanted to say no. I wanted to see just how far he would go, but I nodded instead because I was more than a little hungry… for more than just food. Still, I knew my short-tempered, sleep-deprived brain wouldn’t survive another hour without something actually nutritious.
“I guess so.”
He chuckled, shaking his head slowly. “I almost thought you were going to tell me to forget about dinner.”
“And would you?” I quirked a brow.
He paused, then rose smoothly and held out his hand for me to take. His eyes gleamed down at me. “I would still have dinner,” he said calmly. “However, the contents would be slightly different.”
Sir. Please act right for five minutes.
I hesitated, chewing on my bottom lip while my pulse stumbled unevenly again.
I knew he was just a perverted man, but part of me kept wanting to believe there was something genuine beneath all the teasing.
Instead of dwelling on it, I slipped my hand into his and forced myself to focus elsewhere.
His touch soothed me almost instantly, easing the tension in my body little by little until my nerves stopped buzzing quite so loudly.
My fingers tingled where they twined with his, but the sensation was strangely calming.
“I’m nervous,” I admitted quietly. “It sounds like everyone’ll be there.”
His smirk answered before his words did. “You are not incorrect.”
Of course I wasn’t.
“I’ll have your new clothes delivered to your home,” he said suddenly, his gaze lowering briefly to where our hands remained joined.
I blinked. “Oh.” My voice softened. “Thanks.”
He answered with only a small nod before turning toward the door. I followed close beside him, my pulse fluttering unevenly while I tried not to imagine what kind of dinner I’d just agreed to.
The second we stepped outside, the cold struck hard enough to steal my breath.
My shoulders tensed instinctively, my body curling inward against the sudden chill.
Before I could even process it, the suited employee hurried over with smooth, practiced movements, a polished smile already waiting on his face.
My jacket rested folded neatly over his arm, pristine and unwrinkled like it had never been worn.
“We hope you’ve enjoyed your evening, young miss,” he said warmly as he guided my arms into the sleeves.
Young miss. I was never getting used to sounding like a Victorian orphan.
The phrase slipped through my mind, and a small giggle escaped me as I looked up at him. “Yeah,” I said lightly. “It’s been great.”
The words had barely left my mouth before the atmosphere beside me changed.
I felt the shift instantly. Culver’s presence sharpened until the air around him felt rigid and volatile.
I looked up at him, and my smile disappeared the second I saw his face.
He wasn’t just annoyed. His expression had gone vicious, his glare fixed squarely on the man helping me.
His jaw flexed hard, muscles tightening as though he were restraining himself by force alone.
When my gaze dropped lower, I saw his fists clenched so tightly that I thought his knuckles might split.
“Keep your hands to yourself,” Culver said, his voice low and seething.
Well, that escalated horrifyingly fast.
The words hadn’t even fully landed before his hand shot out.
He grabbed the man’s wrist with brutal precision.
A sharp, sickening crack split the air, unmistakable and final, like dry wood snapping beneath pressure. The man cried out, stumbling backward as his hand collapsed at an impossible angle, useless and wrong. Nausea twisted through me, panic tightening around my chest with every breath.
I knew that sound.
Back in middle school, still clumsy and overconfident with breakdancing, I’d tried a move way beyond my skill level.
It had taken one bad landing and one wrong angle.
My leg had snapped beneath me like splintered wood.
I hadn’t cried immediately. I’d only stared at my body as though it no longer belonged to me.
The pain hadn’t reached me until halfway to the ER, and when it finally did, it became unbearable.
But Culver hadn’t hesitated.
There’d been no warning, no buildup. Just a clean grip and one precise break, as effortless as snapping a pencil in half.
That terrified me more than the sound itself.
“Culver!” I yelled, grabbing a fistful of his hoodie and yanking him back, but he didn’t budge even an inch. My voice shook as panic clawed its way up my throat. “He was just helping me. He didn’t do anything!”
The man dropped to one knee, clutching his shattered wrist as sweat beaded along his pale forehead. Somehow, impossibly, he managed a strained smile. He didn’t say anything to me, though, and it made me wonder if it was because he was afraid of Culver. If he spoke to me, would Culver kill him?
I wanted to scream. Not at Culver, but for the man in front of me. Especially when I noticed the other suited employee beside him hadn’t reacted at all. He stood there like part of the building itself, as if violence were just another fixture of the place.
Was it normal here?
Did everyone around Culver just go through life knowing they might be next? Because at this point, I was starting to feel like the only person reacting normally.
My eyes drifted back to the injured man. His uniform was still immaculate. His posture somehow remained controlled, as though this wasn’t new. Unease curled through me as Culver’s gaze settled on my back, tracking my reaction like he was measuring it.
“Take him to a physician,” Culver said coldly, “before I change my mind.”
The words sent a chill through me. Not because of what he’d already done, but because of how easily he could have done worse.
I turned toward him, forcing steadiness into my voice that I didn’t feel. “Culver, this isn’t okay,” I said firmly. “You don’t just hurt people like that. Especially people you pay.”